


Adulterous Intentions

by avulle



Category: Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 14:48:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3330026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avulle/pseuds/avulle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first thing Alice notices is a head of thick red hair—too long and too luscious to be hers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adulterous Intentions

The first thing Alice notices is a head of thick red hair—too long and too luscious to be hers.

And, for a moment, it is all she can see. It transfixes her—and it is almost as an afterthought that she recognizes her husband of sixty-three years beneath it (almost as an afterthought that she recognizes _her_ bed and _her_ room around them).

In total, the vision lasts three seconds. The when, why and how are unclear—three seconds is too short to know (even for Alice, with ninety-one years of experience). But where, what, and who are horrifically, and stomach-churningly obvious.

For the first time in her ninety-one year existence, Alice curses her vampirism.

Her chest contracts, and her breath heaves—and, from what she’s been taught about humans—if she could, she would be weeping (or perhaps having a panic attack).

But she can’t (she’s a vampire, and vampires are incapable of such visceral expressions of emotion).

“What’s wrong?”

It’s Jasper’s voice.

And it is as kind and loving as it has always been when directed at her.

Affection wraps around her, and she opens her eyes and turns to him.

And, in that instant, she imagines that she can forgive him. That she can forget. Take him home, have him show her how he could never love another.

But then, over his shoulder, she sees a head of red hair. Green contacts hiding red eyes. Shoulders just slightly broader than hers (breasts just bigger than hers), and a face—a face that she really and truly wishes she had never seen before.

They haven’t met yet—of that Alice is certain. The woman with the red hair and the fake green eyes is looking at them in curiousity (yellow eyes are not such a common thing, after all). How she came to be here Alice has no idea (it was only three seconds, after all—and an indeterminate point in the future).

But, for the first time, Alice wishes someone had never been born. The world most assuredly did not need her to exist, if this is the consequence of her existence.

Jasper places his hand on her shoulder (it dwarves it, thumb on a shoulder blade, fingers carefully placed as to not accidentally grope), in an effort to calm her. Her gaze finally settles on him, and she’s certain he can feel the black hate that is running through her veins.

The black hate that is not directed towards the woman with the red hair and the fake green eyes—but towards him.

Because the woman with the red hair and the fake green eyes did not swear to protect her. The woman with the red hair and the fake green eyes did not swear to cherish her. The woman with the red hair and the fake green eyes did not swear to love her, for the rest of their immortal lives.

But Jasper did.

They’re in the middle of a shopping center, but Alice cannot bring herself to care.

Jasper removes his hand from her shoulder and shifts his weight back—but he’s too late. In the sixty-one years they’ve spent together, he’s never once bested her (no Cullen has—no _vampire_ ever has).

It’s not his fault. Fighting someone who can see the future is an exercise in futility.

Some part of her brain must still be working because when she takes a step forward and drives her palm into his chest she directs him not into the crowd or the crowded bookstore to their right but into the abandoned record store to their left.

To the human eye, they have simply disappeared, and the front glass of what used to be a record store exploded into itself.

Screaming erupts from outside (windows do not simply _explode_ , after all), and Alice is thankful.

It covers the thunderclaps of stone striking stone and prevents anyone getting curious enough to check.

Jasper is confused—rightly so, of course—but fights well. He was not Maria’s right hand man for nothing.

It doesn’t matter. His blocks are ineffective and his blows strike air (he doesn’t have killing intent, after all, how could he hope to win?).

Her blows strike true. Palms, fists, elbows. The cracks that flow up and down her arms heal quickly—the cracks that make themselves known on his chest and face do not.

His movements slow, and panic enters his eyes. Jasper is a soldier—he understands when a battle is lost—and he understands when retreat is unfeasible.

A growl sounds from behind her and—Alice wants to cry.

She wants to weep. She wants to cry and scream and tear this fucking mall to small, crushable pieces.

Because she can see it—she can see their relationship—Jasper and the woman with the red hair and the fake green eyes.

The woman with the red hair and the now-destroyed green contacts (super speed is rough on such flimsy things) stands behind her, spouting something about a one-sided fight.

Righteousness in a human-drinker.

The irony is enough to make a deranged laugh bubble up from her the throat.

They will bond over this fight—all the family will, really. Together, they will bond over the loss of Alice.

Sweet, kind Alice who just—snapped—one day. No one knows why.

She should stop now. She could still repair her relationship with Jasper—he would understand. He’s understood worse before.

But she won’t. She—can’t.

Even as she considers the decision, no visions make themselves known on her retina.

After all, no matter how much she considers, she _knows_ that she’d never do it. The betrayal is over—done with (she’ll never be able to trust him again.)

(She’ll never be able to trust anyone again.)

The woman is fast—at her side in a moment. She’s a martial arts master (internationally recognized in Muai Thai), Alice knows (she’s seen the woman tell Jasper of it).

Alice puts her hand through the woman’s chest before her feet touch the ground. It’s more cathartic than effective—vampires don’t need a heart, and can operate with a hole in their chest just fine—but Alice does allow herself to feel the barest hints of vindication in the action.

She’s certain that Jasper is putting it together. Before Edward, he spent a great deal of time learning to read thoughts through emotion. But it doesn’t matter.

None of it does, anymore.

When she removes her hand, the woman stumbles, and in that instant of indecision, Alice takes off her head.

The woman’s body crumples to a heap at her feet—a stone puppet with its strings cut.

The Cullens appear at the window. Carlisle, Esme, Emmett, Rosalie and Edward (the Cullens as they were before Bella—the Cullens as they were before _her_ ).

Edward is the first to physically intervene—he can read the futility of Carlisle’s sermonizing straight from her mind.

He likely thinks he can stop her—that she could actually lose this fight.

As her fist finally shatters Jasper’s head into pieces, Alice allows herself a mirthless laugh.

She is _Alice_.

At nine days old, she killed the ripper.

At three months, she rebuffed Aro, and tore his guard to pieces.

She is the newborn that faced down the Volturi guard and won.

The Cullens are not aware of this (the Volturi never made a point of publicizing their failures), but from Edward’s face, it’s likely he just learned it (you can see it in the hesitancy that enters his step—he has a life now, a wife to go home to).

(He is not the machine he once was.)

She charges first—and he, a split second later.

Edward’s ability is obnoxious in a fight—stealing her futures straight from her head.

But it is little more than obnoxious.

He does not have her experience.

He does not actually possess her sight.

They trade seven blows before she takes off his head.

Even Jasper was a better fight (Edward’s never beaten him, after all).

(None of them have.)

Carlisle and Emmett charge in next. Carlisle’s pacifism evaporates in the face of his first (and favorite, no matter what he says) son’s headless body.

After Carlisle tumbles to the ground, Emmett and Esme rapidly follow.

Rosalie doesn’t bother to enter the fight—Alice is certain that she knows exactly what happened.

“Oh, Alice.”

Alice turns to her and sincerely wishes she could cry.

“Rosalie.” Alice runs her hand through her too-short hair. The too-short hair that will never grow.

She feels something inside of her fracture.

Alice, always the unabashed vampire, feels the weight of her condition. Hair that is eternally too short, skin that is eternally too hard, limbs that are eternally too heavy. Sight that is too perfect, hearing that is too astute, and a memory that is altogher too flawless.

She fists her hand in her hair and pulls (futile, of course, no strands come out).

(Even if they did, they’d be back in seconds—vampires cannot go bald).

A strangled noise gets caught in her throat, and Rosalie is beside her in a moment, her cold, hard limbs encircling her head.

Alice knows Rosalie won’t attack her. Alice knows she’ll hug Alice to her chest and let her dry-sob her stone, unbeating heart out.

But part of Alice really wishes she’d just tear her head off, and put her out of her misery.

 

Jacob catches up to her two days later. She’s somewhere in Northern Montana.

She’d been aware of his coming since the moment she left the record store in Seattle. No matter where she went, a heavy blackness coated her future right around the middle of the third day.

He does not bring Renesmee with him—a sensible decision. She’s altogether too fragile—with her still-beating heart and limbs that won’t attach themselves back on to her body.

Of course, Jacob is fragile, too. He just doesn’t like to admit it (no one has ever made him admit it).

He does not bring his pack, either. She’s mildly curious how he managed to keep Seth and Leah at home without using those alpha-commands he so despises (they can both run faster than he can).

She’s sitting on a boulder in a clearing, idly watching the futures of Bella and Rosalie when he arrives (Bella’s still not-crying, and Rosalie is fucking Emmett into a crater).

He stops just beyond her view to change before coming into the clearing (it’s difficult to have a conversation as a wolf).

“Hi!” she greets him brightly.

He looks uncomfortable. Conflicted. He had no particular love for the people she tore to pieces, but Renesmee is certainly crying over it.

He pauses just a moment too long for it to be comfortable before he returns her greeting.

“Hey.”

“What’s up?” Bella is comforting a blur, telling her that Aunt Alice still loves her. It’s true enough, and Alice vows to send a card.

Jacob starts to shake, and his face twists in rage.

Edward draws an image of Jane, Alec and Chelsea without their heads and shows it to the family—trying to convince them not to come after her. It’s effective enough, with everyone except for Emmett (Rosalie convinces him with a kiss and a simple “Don’t go”). Bella’s not-crying on Rosalie’s shoulder.

They’ve bonded over her departure (she could almost cry).

(Except she can’t—and she’ll never be able to.)

Jasper isn’t present. Everyone is whole and scar free.

Jacob’s tremors intensify, and Alice loses her patience (she doesn’t have time for this).

“Calm _down_ , Jacob.”

Her voice is sharp, and he jerks back as if he’d been struck.

The tremors stop, and his face twists into something that resembles surprise.

“Why’d you do it?”

She chokes back a laugh.

“Because I’m not as _chivalrous_ as you, Jacob.”

His face twists in shame, and he runs his hands through his buzz cut, his hands attempting to twist locks that aren’t there anymore.

“Isn’t there anything I can do to get you to come back?” He swallows thickly.

She stares down at him—he already knows the answer to that question.

He transforms in a split second—and he’s enormous, filling the clearing. He lowers his muzzle (at least half the size of her entire body) and meets her eye (almost the size of her face)—before turning his back and dashing off into the woods, leaving the scraps of his clothing scattered across the clearing.

Alice stifles another laugh.

Rosalie is crying into Emmett’s shoulder.

Emmett is silently shaking, too proud (and too big) to cry into hers.

For just a moment, her control slips, and she sees the vision that began all of this again.

At least this time she knows when, why and how.


End file.
